


Favorite

by blackgoldmentality



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Confessions, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Personal Growth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-24 17:13:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15635118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackgoldmentality/pseuds/blackgoldmentality
Summary: "Who's your favorite Paladin?"





	Favorite

**Author's Note:**

> Season seven starts in just a little over three hours, and I wanted to get this out while conceptualizing about what occurs during the teased Game Show episode is still fully valid.
> 
> This story is the combined, full-length version of a set of blurbs that I wrote self-indulgently on my Tumblr. They consist of [Lance being asked to confess his possible feelings for Keith during said Game Show](https://blackgoldmentality.tumblr.com/post/176268443646/klance-confession-during-the-game-show-episode), with another way of this occurring being [Lance getting asked who his favorite Paladin is](https://blackgoldmentality.tumblr.com/post/176765907983/i-want-bob-to-ask-lance-who-his-favorite-paladin).
> 
> Can you tell I'm starved of official Klance content? Because I'm starved of official Klance content. They can only hold out on us for so long...
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the original _Voltron: Legendary Defender_ characters. I only own my interpretation and usage of this plot, and whatever miscellaneous characters I may add.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!

There is a dull ache enveloping his body. He can hardly stand any longer, as being forced to do so by the glowing white disks which capture his feet, and the contestant podium in front of him—in front of them all—being the only thing he can lean against for some relief, the dark lines under his eyes exemplify the tiredness he is feeling all over. His energy is every ground-sinking low as he rests his chin against the cool plastic of the podium, watching the Yellow Paladin endure an eating challenge.

The question said Paladin was given to answer had been about what the ingredients he typically used to freestyle food, were truly for. The only answers the team was able to provide were for the Altean “food goo” and scaultrite component that had once been used to bake inedible cookies. Everything else, turns out, the Yellow Paladin was truly winging-it on and had little to no idea of what they were truly for—the question was then passed onto the opposing team of their enemies, who surprisingly enough guessed three uses correctly, enough to out-score them.

He thinks so sarcastically, as, what with being conjures by their lovely host—once again, he thinks so sarcastically—it is no wonder at all that when they fail, the faux models are able to easily succeed.

The punishment, then, is to eat a collection of new foods that the Paladins had never seen before; there is no telling if said foodstuffs even truly exist outside of the warped world they are stuck in. Thinking the eating challenge easy, the Yellow Paladin took the first bite with enthusiasm, with a natural curiosity and elation at trying new foods making the occasion happy in a pseudo sense. They had all expected the host to call out a timer as Yellow took his first bite, but were instead shocked when the most refined palette of them began to vomit into a waste bin that the host at least had enough dignity to make for him.

That is when it became clear what the challenge was: Not to eat the pile of food the fastest, but to eat as much of it as possible without going into a coma—he is exaggerating, but the sickly green look on his friend’s face makes him think that would be the far better option.

Hunk cannot will himself to bite through the globular, spotted… fruit, they think, in his hand. The experience is starting to remind him of the early days of growing accustomed to alien food; and, as here he cannot improvise in making it taste better and must consume the full, raw ingredient, his tongue and stomach shy away from the palette.

“I give up, I give up!” He exclaims at the host, weaker than expected as he continued to recover from the one bite of the cube-like, leafed ingredient from before.

The audience, a literal outline of black in front of the stage they are forced to be on, move much in the way of shadow-puppet films as a certainly pre-recorded sound effect of disappointment plays. They refuse to believe that throng of black outlines are actual aliens; Pidge herself had the irregularity that would be two-dimensional forms existing in a three-dimensional space.

“Oof, that’s gonna be another penalty for Team Voltron—it’s almost like they never wanna leave, folks, am I right?” Playing to this puppet theatre, the audience cheers at the alien host—happily floating and relaxed in his anti-gravitational chair—banters with them.

Without any care or gentleness, the Yellow Paladin is forced back into his podium by the moving silver disks which bind him; the quick, jerking action of which sets his stomach off again. However, this time, there is no waste bin to relieve himself in, and so he covers his mouth as harshly as he can, and forces himself to swallow everything back. He groans, and for a brief moment forgets that there is not truly a wall behind him, or a floor under him, as he leans back and his body falls over—his head goes through said wall and floor before the old and new Blue Paladins can help him back up.

“Thanks guys—” He briefly pauses to recollect himself once more, his stomach far too volatile now after that food to have easily bent with him without feeling as though his insides are being mixed up. “That was… ugh… awful…” His chin hits the top of his podium with a thud, fatigue washing over his face.

“No problem, buddy,” he attempts to comfort his friend; his words very clearly futile as from the beginning no one was comfortable with this situation, and after hours—yes, hours—of being stuck in that room and forced to play through this game, they are even less comfortable. Agitated and restless, more like.

“You did well, Hunk,” the Princess, ever the diplomat, compliments as she rubs her hand on the Yellow Paladin’s back. He wonders if she wishes she could use her Altean alchemic abilities to soothe Hunk’s—all of their pain.

Hunk does not respond, likely not wanting to risk disturbing his body once more.

“Alright~!” The host resumes. “Next up we have—oh, every one’s favorite rag doll—” He groans deeply. “Lance!”

Even though the disk flying him off to the podium have occurred on several occasions, he still cannot prepare himself for it as in the blink of an eye he crosses the hypotenuse of the room to be placed at the podium his friend just stood at. A part of him, when he comes to and his vision is no longer blurry, looks it up and down to see if any chunks of regurgitated food were stuck to it. Thankfully, no.

“So, Lance,” their alien host begins as he moves closer to him, going into the frivolous sweet-talk he thinks is charming, “you’ve been having a bit of a rough night, haven’t you?”

“I think we all are, Bob,” he tries to keep his quips respectful and coy so as not to anger the seemingly omnipotent being. This is his world, and he can make the game as easy or as difficult as he wants depending on his mood—and he does not seem to like him, as much of the questions and challenges he has been given were some of the toughest.

“Yes, but you don’t seem to be that bright now are you? You’ve failed the most and have needed to do just about all the physical challenges—I’m having a hard time coming up with new stuff for you, kid!” He puts his right elbow on the podium to rest his head against, in an attempt to hide his embarrassed face from the rest of the time by no longer facing them, due to his embarrassment. Their host is absolutely correct; he has failed the most—his muscles’ screams are getting ever louder due to this. “This next question I’m gonna give you has one—count them, one—!” He gestures to the scoreboard the pops up behind him, showing one vertical bar with the answer hidden behind, and a score of zero atop, waiting to climb to higher numbers. “One answer! So all you’ve got to do is answer it—that sound good enough to you?”

Before he can reply, the host goes on with, “But wait! There’s more! Answer this, and I’ll let you all go! Right here, right now, no more questions asked!”

That brings a bit of hope to the team as they start to support him from the sidelines, stating that he can do this; it’s just one answer; it’s something that he has to know; _he can do this_.

“Okay… I’ve got this…” He straightens his spine, a determined look on his face, and keeps his breathing calm. One answer. One question, one answer. He can do this, he can do this, he can do this… “What’s the question?”

Before the host replies, a look flashes across his face that makes his heart sink to his stomach and dissolve in acid; a sickly grin, devious, full of trickery.

He is not going to like this question… is he?

“So, Lance, Red Paladin of Voltron,” the build-up is insufferable, “—technically—who is your favorite Paladin?”

He blinks.

“What?”

“Are you that dense, boy? It’s a simple question—who, among the members of your team, is your favorite Paladin?”

“Wh—I—” He looks at the row of podiums where his team members stand, equally as confused as him; aside from Hunk, who continues to recover from his challenge and is certainly just half listening at this point.

“Who’s his favorite Paladin?” Pidge reiterates.

“That’s what I said, shorty—or are you hard of hearing too?”

“Isn’t that too obvious to be a high-stakes question? We all know Lance thinks the highest of himself when it comes to the team.” Something in the way she says that strikes him deeply, makes his heart feel as sore as his muscles, but he does not let that show on his face.

“You’re wrong! And hun, let me remind you, this is a question for Lance and Lance only to answer, so you’re lucky that wasn’t the answer or I would’ve penalized your team for it.”

Pidge frowns, distressed, and opts to do just that.

All attention turns back to him now that they have been thoroughly threatened—it is then that the full extent of the question truly hits him, and he digs his fingernails into the palms of his balled fists.

“When you say… _favorite_ ,” he looks the host directly in their eyes, “what do you mean?”

The alien smiles wide, leaning forward, lowering his voice, “What do you _think_ I mean?”

His heart skips a beat in shock, his eyes go wide, her frowns with gritted teeth. No, no—he cannot mean that. _Please_ do not mean _that_. He… he is not ready—he has yet to fully come to terms with it himself! He will be ridiculed at such a thing… He has no right to proclaim those feelings, not with the way that he has treated his favorite Paladin, in the past.

He shakes his head.

“N-no, I ca—”

“Careful there, Lance, or you just might get your team stuck here forever.”

He closes his lips, bites onto them in the inside of his mouth. Oh no… oh no… This _is_ a high-stakes question, is it not? Currently, the livelihood of his team is all on him. Such a seemingly simple question with heavy, perhaps heartbreaking implications—and he has to be the one to answer it.

Is he shaking? He hopes he is not shaking?

_What are they thinking right now?_ He turns to look at his team, who all have concerned expressions on their faces. He cannot… he cannot tell whom they think he is going to answer from what he reads on them. He looks away when said answer almost makes eye-contact with him. His heart is being the loudest of he has ever heard or felt it.

“Tick-tock _lover-boy_ ,” the host eggs on, “or by default you remain here. Remember! You only have one minute to answer and right now you’re down to thirty seconds!”

“Thirty seconds?!” He yells in a high-pitched, panicked voice. “Wh-wh-wh—” He had thought this question would be timeless, but sure enough, the clock hanging over the audience is ticking down from thirty.

_29_

_28_

_27_

_26_

No… this is no good… this is now what he needs right now. This is not—this is not how he had wanted all of this to happen; this is not how he wanted to make his feelings known.

His feelings… his feelings… his crush…

_25_

_24_

_23_

What… should he do?

What does he mean, ‘ _What should I do?’_ Is the answer not obvious? To truthfully reply and set his team free! That is what he should do!

…Should he not?

_22_

_21_

_20_

_19_

That is so much easier said than done—in concept, it should be no problem to proclaim which of his teammates he prefers if the answer was not tied to a much deeper meaning to “preference.”

_18_

_17_

_16_

“Do… do I only get one chance to answer it correctly?” He meekly asks the host.

“That’s right! One question, one answer, one chance! It’s only fair!”

_15_

_14_

_13_

_12_

_11_

“…And… if I get it wrong… you’ll make us stay here longer? You won’t give us another chance like this?”

“Right again! Oh, and just to be _very_ clear: Mess this up, and things will only get harder from here…”

_10_

_9_

There is… no way out…

_8_

_7_

_6_

He has to do it… for the benefit of the team—and in an over-arching plot, for the benefit of the universe, of the aliens they have saved, for Earth, for the Garrison, for their families, he has to reply with the correct answer from the very beginning.

_5_

_4_

Yet the self-preservation part of him is trying to be optimistic in saying that the alien host is likely fibbing, and that challenges will remain as challenging as they have been.

How worse could this game become?

In an attempt to justify this notion, he cites the agony Hunk is in, which seems top-tier, as an example.

What else is there left to be done to them? They have all been humiliated at some point or another, asked to do the impossible both physically and mentally. Some of their darkest moments have occurred on that brightly-colored stage with cheerful lighting. Clearly, there is nothing left, is there?

_3_

_2_

The alien host being able to dredge up such a question is evidence to otherwise.

_1_

“Keith… my favorite Paladin is Keith…”

His voice is lower than his head, which hangs in defeat; he wishes his hair was as long as said Paladin’s so that it could fully hide his face from the view of the others.

The timer ticks down with a blare just as he answers.

“Oh I’m afraid that with that bell in the way, we couldn’t all quite hear you! Care to answer again so the audience can get it on this?”

For a brief moment he forgets himself and lets his frustration—his anger—show by slamming his fists into the podium. It rings louder than the bells or buzzers throughout the game ever have; feels more weighted, too.

“I said… Keith…” His voice wavers, but the words are still more audible, more firm, than before. “Keith is my favorite Paladin—I prefer him over the others.”

How is the team reacting to this? He does not know; he is adamant about not looking in their direction to see for himself. His eyes are shut to prevent temptation, and so that he does not accidentally look to them. He remains that way—head hanging, eyes unseeing, fists present atop the podium—as the host starts his usual berating.

“Well, that’s not what any of you expected now is it?!” He is certain the host is addressing the team, as much as he does not want to hear them. “Now tell us _why_ —why not, say, Allura, whom you’ve shown to favor in the past?”

“That’s enough!” He flinches as he hears Keith’s voice—and has to call everything inside of him to keep himself from looking to him. “You said that if he answered, you’d let us go—now _let us go_!” His tone is deep and harsh—is he angry? Why would he not be angry? Hearing that he… the person who for such a long time mistreated him under the guise of a “rivalry” favors him, would make him angry too if he were in his position.

“Hey, hey, that’s no way to end a show! What type of host would I be if I didn’t get a reasoning?”

“Doesn’t matter—Lance already upheld his part of the deal. If you wanted more, you should’ve asked for it. Let us go, _now_.”

At the end of Keith’s assertiveness, without warning, his helmet reappears, and the world goes silent and white. He is flung into a world of vertigo and disorientation. When he is able to look around him, he finds himself in the familiar interior of the Red Lion’s cockpit.

.

.

He must… talk to Keith—he knows that he does.

There is a lot that needs to be said between them, but… he is too frightened to. He stares at the back of the Black Lion as he flies his furthest from the group, not wanting to get any closer. Big before, it now seems gargantuan being the one piloted by a knowing favorite. It seems further away than ever, as well, as though he cannot truly see it in front of him but it rather being a hallucination of his desires trying to comfort him.

He shakes his head.

It is still there; it is still there. He is far from it, yes, but it and the other Lions are there. It is also his fault—all his fault—that such distance is between them.

Then, the Black Lion gets closer, and closer, and closer. He watches in shocked silence at its pilot makes it take a place beside his; flying as slowly as he is, his eyes very clearly being able to see the windows of the cockpit.

“Lance…” He jumps in his seat as Keith streams himself onto Red’s UI. Momentarily filled with anxiety and fear over what may come next, he keeps his head turned to the left as he continues to look at Black. He cannot face him… he cannot face him… “Lance, please… look at me… I have something to say to you…”

He does not give him the chance to. “I know you’re angry at me,” he states as he turns his head forward, but avoids eye-contact by keeping them focused on his lap. “I know that… what I said isn’t something you wanted to hear—and I’m sorry for that, but… I wanted to always keep it a secret, but I didn’t want you guys to have to go through any more of that alien’s nonsense. I wanted us all to be able to go home, so I embarrassed us both…”

“…I’m not angry…”

His eyes go wide. “What?” He faces the Black Paladin.

“I’m not… I’m not angry about what you said… I don’t…” Keith looks about as nervous as he is, but continues to try his hardest to keep calm and say what needs to be said. “I don’t mind what you said at all. It’s actually… I’m actually glad to hear it.”

The thumping of his heart seems louder.

“You’re… not angry—even after all the crap I’ve done to you?”

“Like saving my life?” Keith interjects. “Multiple times? Supporting me when I messed up being the leader? Yeah, Lance, you’ve given me the toughest time out of everyone.”

“You know what I mean! I—I kept teasing you and frankly being a jerk over some… some stupid rivalry that I don’t even think is real anymore… Keith…” Is he imagining it, or does Keith jump to attention in his seat as well? “When I said that I—that you were my favorite, it… it meant more than the regular _favorite_ … but that’s not something that I was ready to admit… I’m still dealing with a lot because of it… I’m sorry if that annoys you.”

“Lance, you’re my favorite.”

He quickly turns away from Keith, this time hiding the flush on his face that his tan skin camouflages regardless. He can feel the full mass of his heart in his chest at it reacts to the sudden proclamation. There are so many ways that he wants to responds, but he knows that there is only one correct way to do so.

“…When I feel like I can tell you that again, I will.”

Keith smiles.

“Take your time, I’ll wait for you.”

The Black Lion goes back to the front of the team; Red follows behind to then take its place at its upper right side.

**Author's Note:**

> All I have left to say is, **_KICK!_**


End file.
